


sing to me instead

by panlesters



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Of sorts?, Slow Burn, apparently, busker au, coffee shop AU, combeferre tries his best, courfeyrac is a soft boi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:28:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24128164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panlesters/pseuds/panlesters
Summary: Combeferre's work commute is the one part of his day that is always the same, until a busker appears where there usually isn't one.
Relationships: Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> okayyy so this was gonna be so short lol and now it,,, isn't. it's a chaptered fic but i don't know how many chapters (probably not many?) and i don't know how often it will get updated. but have this first installment, i hope you enjoy!

Combeferre walks the same route to work every day. It’s not too long really, in the grand scheme of things, but it does involve a bus and a trip on the tube. Hours are always the same, and he gets used to seeing the same commuters day in, day out. They don’t talk, but maybe they nod, maybe they hold a door, offer a seat. Every trip is the same. Nothing stands out, but that’s okay. His job has enough variation for him, and he likes the familiarity of same trip and the same events, twice a day, every day.

Of course, buskers are a common occurrence. Homelessness is through the roof, as he’s aware, from his own research and from Enjolras’ constant mantra against the government and their poor attempts at funding help for the homeless. _If you can call it funding_ , he can hear Enjolras’ voice every time he thinks about it. And if it’s not people sleeping rough, it’s those who can’t get work who busk in the tube stations and on street corners. It’s difficult, hearing beautiful music on his way to work and knowing that it’s from a place of desperation, and he tries his best to carry spare change with him everywhere he goes, so he can leave something in the hat or the guitar case of a singer just trying to make ends meet.

It’s not always the same buskers on the streets when Combeferre is heading to work, but none of them ever really stand out to him. It tends to blend together after a while, just another noise in the hubbub of the Paris streets, in the blocks between his apartment and the city hospital.

Combeferre is just getting in from a long shift one day, putting down his rucsac and making his way through his apartment to his shower, when his phone buzzes loudly in his pocket. He groans, loud enough for Enjolras to get up from where he’s sat in his room and frown at him from the doorway.

“Hullo?” he grunts down the phone. It’s been a tiring day, and the last thing he wants to do is communicate with someone.

“Ferre, hi.” It’s Joly on the other line, sounding a little rushed, and Combeferre sighs. It could be worse, he supposes.

“You okay?” he might be exhausted, but it doesn’t ever take long for his ‘mother instincts’ to kick in.

“Not so bad,” he says. “Listen, I know this is short notice, but it’s my anniversary with Bossuet tomorrow and I completely forgot about it.” Combeferre rolls his eyes. It’s not like him to forget anything about Bossuet or Musichetta. In Joly’s defence, he supposes, they have both been rushed off their feet with work recently. “I was just wondering if I could swap my shift with you tomorrow? If you could do my evening shift and I’ll do your day?”

In that second, Combeferre forgets that doing an evening shift means working into the early hours of the morning. He forgets how much he hates them. Instead, he remembers that not working a day shift means that he could lie in a little tomorrow, laze around and not set an alarm.

“Yes, alright,” he says in the end.

“Oh, really?” Joly asks. He sounds so surprised, and he must have been expecting Combeferre to be a bit more difficult to persuade than this. He’s lucky he caught Ferre in such circumstances as today.

“Sure, why not,” Ferre says, trudging into his room and pulling off his coat.

“Oh, thank you, Ferre, you’re a lifesaver!”

“Don’t mention it,” Ferre mumbles. They say their goodbyes and he shuffles out his room and into the bathroom. He makes it through his shower, and even manages to dig out a microwave lasagne from the freezer for dinner.

When Combeferre finally wakes up in the morning, it’s gone 10am. He stares at his clock for a couple of moments, before rolling back over to close his eyes again and let himself lie half asleep for a little while. The apartment is quiet; Enjolras will have already left for work. Ferre would’ve too, if it hadn’t been for Joly calling him yesterday.

He gives himself a few more minutes before he rolls on to his back and stretches out all four limbs, groaning as a couple of his joints crack. He fumbles for his glasses and heads out into the kitchen in search of breakfast.

The day goes by fairly quickly, and soon it’s nearing 6pm, and he’s pulling on his scrubs and getting ready for his shift. He’s just leaving as Enjolras is arriving home, and they offer each other a silent nod in passing. Enjolras has always surprised Combeferre in his ability to read people; he’s one of the loudest and most extroverted people Ferre has ever met, but he understands Combeferre’s need for quiet and time alone better than anyone else ever has.

It’s strange going to work at this time of night. The people aren’t the same, and they are all of a different energy. Everyone else is exhausted, on their way home from long days at shit jobs, and he’s just getting started. He trots down the steps into the underground as a crowd are slowly pulling themselves up in an effort to get home, and he spends his usually calm walk trying to force himself against a current of tired, stressed workmen. By the time he’s nearly at his platform, though, the majority of the crowd is gone, and he’s left able to breathe instead of being crammed at the side of a wall trying to go against the grain. Apart from the people, though, nothing has been strikingly different. Until he rounds a corner to see someone busking, guitar case open ready for change.

There’s not normally anyone busking here. Normally it’s too busy. Just five minutes ago, this poor person would’ve been barely able to strum their guitar for how many people would’ve been in here with them.

All the same, Combeferre digs a hand into his pocket to find some spare change. He takes a chance to swipe his eyes over the person as he approaches. He can’t normally, but he’s not in as much of a hurry as usual. They don’t look too down in the dumps, like they’re singing for their supper. Just like they’re singing for the enjoyment of singing. They’re sporting a shirt that Combeferre thinks must be a band tee, although he doesn’t recognise the art. There’s a flannel shirt tied loosely around their waist, just above a pair of tight black skinny jeans. And damn, they’re pretty cute. But now’s not the time for that. He averts his eyes before they catch him staring, and gently places the few euros he has in the guitar case.

“Thank you, sir,” the person sings as they strum their guitar, “Have a great day, sir.” It’s not a tune that Ferre recognises, but he turns back to flash them a quick grin anyway. They get a big smile in response, and the improvisation continues. “A beautiful smile, sir, such a pretty smile.” Is this busker flirting with him? He doesn’t find it in him to be offended or confused, because they’re cute. And they also have a pretty smile. Instead, he opts to flash them another smile and carry on his way.

He’s not the kind of person who gets hung up on cute strangers. He never has been. He’s always watched on with fond curiosity as Jehan fell in love with nearly every stranger they passed on the street, in one way or another, but he’d never understood it. He still doesn’t, really. He tries hard to push the busker from his mind over his shift, especially when he’s trying to fill out forms or ready patients’ prescriptions, and he needs to concentrate on his work. It’s hard enough that he’s tired without thinking about that bright smile and melodic voice. He’s really not sure what’s gotten into him, but in the end he tells himself it’s just been a while since anyone gave him a compliment on his appearance. He’s just enjoying the little ego boost he got from being told he has a nice smile by a stranger on the street. That’s all.

The next day Combeferre is working, he’s careful to look for the busker as he walks through the tube station. There are a couple of musicians playing, and he makes sure to leave them some money each, but there’s no sign of the person from yesterday. He pretends he doesn’t feel a little sadness in his chest, not that he’s got anyone to pretend to except himself. His journey is just the same as always, and for once he’s a little disappointed about it. His day goes by slowly, although it’s not as tiring as it usually is. When someone calls in sick and someone is asked to stay a little later to help cover, Combeferre volunteers. He could always use the extra money, and maybe the best day for overtime is when he’s not feeling completely worked down to his knees.

It’s nearly 7:30 when Combeferre gets out of work, and it’s getting dark. He considers calling a taxi instead of getting the tube home, but in the end he decides there’s no point in working longer hours for extra money if he spends it driving halfway across the city. The tube is a little quieter than the last night he was here this late, and travelling with the crowd instead of against it makes everything a little more manageable.

He nearly misses the busker. He’s on the other side of the tunnel, and he’s surrounded by the sound of people eager to get home, but he hears the rhythmic strum of a guitar, in this place where he wouldn’t normally, and lets himself get attracted to the noise, much to the annoyance of the people around him just trying to get out. But he manages, and then he’s stood in front of the busker, and they’re eye to eye. They give him a confident smile, and carry on playing whatever song it was they were playing.

“Nice to see you again, sir,” he sings. Combeferre feels a little heat in his cheeks to know that he’s been thought about by the person he’s been thinking about. He shoves a hand in his pocket, leaning a little to throw the coins in the busker’s guitar case but never really breaking eye contact. “You’re kind sir, too kind sir,” they sing. Ferre knows he should be getting home, knows he should turn and follow the crowd, but instead he stands and stares at the busker, while they continue to play their guitar, humming the tune to their song. In the end, he manages to make himself turn to leave.

“Good night sir, good night,” the busker sings as Combeferre begins to walk away. He turns, lifts a hand and waves to the busker, who grins and nods. He’s not really sure what’s going on, not really sure how this person has made him feel a little giddy, made his cheeks hot and occupied his mind the way he has. Maybe he needs to start dating again, like his mother had told him to months ago. Maybe he’s just missing the feeling of romance, and he’s seeing it where it isn’t.

He doesn’t see the busker for the next few days. They must be just going out in the evenings, and Combeferre’s schedule must just not match theirs. He tries not to let himself get hung up on it, though. Maybe he should finally follow Grantaire’s advice and get a Tinder account. Clearly he’s missing being in a relationship. And maybe he’s just been ignoring it, just covering for himself by being happy for all his friends. But the more he thinks about it, the more he realises he really is surrounded by romance. Grantaire is in their apartment more often than not, Bossuet or Musichetta are always there to pick Joly up after a shift. Although Jehan is never really in a relationship, they’re in love with love, and maybe Combeferre has been missing that kind of relationship without even realising it.

With that in mind, on his next day off Combeferre texts Jehan to ask if they want to meet up for a coffee. Of course they agree; Jehan is known in their friendship group for dropping everything for anyone, even for just a catch-up. Combeferre’s grateful for it. Maybe he needs some poetic romance advice. Deep down, he knows that he’s asking Jehan because they will tell him to keep an eye out for the busker, that if they’re still on his mind then that means something. He’s not quite ready to admit that to himself yet, so maybe hearing it from someone else is what he needs.

They end up finding a little indie coffee shop in the backstreets near Jehan’s apartment, which they have been swearing by for weeks. The front is a pretty lilac colour, and Jehan makes a comment about being able to sit outside in the sun. Combeferre is about to say that he’d like to sit inside, actually, when they walk up to the counter and see the barista behind the counter. He feels as though he’s paled, but his face is heating up. He’d like to try and hide behind Jehan, but they’re nearly a foot shorter than he is, so that’s not going to work. Instead, he puts on a smile, and hopes that maybe he doesn’t look recognisable when he’s not wearing scrubs and rushed off his feet in a tube station.

“Morning,” the busker says cheerfully when they reach the counter. “What can I get for you?”

Today they’re wearing a different plaid shirt, buttoned up to the top with a little rainbow chain attaching the collar together at the front. It’s cute. They’re wearing a little makeup, too: some coloured eyeliner, and a little bit of a smoky eye to match. And yeah, they’re still really cute.

Jehan’s already ordered and moving along by the time Ferre stops obviously staring.

“And for your friend?” they ask, turning to Ferre.

“Uh.” Ferre swallows, averting his eyes to look at the array of cakes under the counter instead of at the barista. “Can I get a peach iced tea and a blueberry muffin?” he manages to look back up at them to speak, thankfully.

“Of course,” the barista says, a big grin. Ferre smiles back as naturally as he can, and they wink at him.

“Such a pretty smile, sir,” they sing softly, before turning around to get started on drinks, leaving Ferre feeling a little more flushed. When he turns, Jehan is watching him, a smirk across their face.

“Ferre?” they hiss, bumping him in the arm with their shoulder. “What was that?”

Ferre puts a finger to his lips, trying his best not to blush or smile, even though he’s feeling somewhere between embarrassed and giddy. He shoves his hands into his pockets, feeling a little bit of loose change in there. The barista is turning back with their drinks when he lifts his hand from his pocket and puts some change in the tip jar. The barista sees, smiles, and gives Ferre another wink.

“Thank you sir, too kind, sir,” they sing. Ferre’s muffin gets put on the tray and Jehan picks it up to find a table. “Enjoy your drinks,” the barista says with a smile. Even their voice is musical, and Ferre mutters a thanks as they turn away.

Jehan moves them outside and they settle down at their table. For a second Ferre thinks they might not ask, but they he catches their eye and sees their smirk.

“Spill.”

Combeferre feels his face heat up again, and pushes his glasses up his face awkwardly.

“I… well…”

“Spit it out, Ferre,” Jehan says, nothing but fondness in their voice.

“I walked past them busking,” he says eventually. “When I was doing a late shift last week. And I left some money and they sang a thank you, and then the same thing happened another day. That’s it.”

“That’s it?” Jehan asks. “That’s what’s got you all blushy over a total stranger?” There’s really no pulling the wool over their eyes, and Ferre knows it. He tried, and clearly Jehan isn’t taking any shit.

“Okay, fine,” Combeferre says with a whine. “They told me I had a nice smile and they’re really cute.” He can’t help but pout a little, but he forgives himself because he really doesn’t think he’s ever felt like this before. “Jehan, I don’t know what to do.”

Jehan raises their eyebrows knowingly and takes a sip from their coffee.

“Not like you to get hung up on someone you don’t even know, Ferre,” they say. “Not really like you to get hung up on anyone at all.”

Ferre sighs, and manages to keep the frown off his face.

“I _know_ , Jehan,” he whines.

“This is why you asked to get coffee, isn’t it?”

Ferre huffs again.

“Maybe,” he mutters. Jehan grins.

“Well, obviously you should go for it,” they say, reaching over and stealing a little bit of Ferre’s muffin. “He’s clearly into you.”

“You know him?” Combeferre asks. It’s the use of male pronouns that tips Ferre off; Jehan is the one who taught him not to assume pronouns, so if they’re using gendered pronouns, they must know more than they’re letting on.

“Only because I’m a regular here,” they say with a shrug. “Before you ask, his name is Courfeyrac. He’s very sweet, and you should ask him out.”

“How?” Ferre asks. His voice nearly slips into a whine, but he manages to stop himself. Petulant child doesn’t suit him. He really doesn’t remember ever being this hung up on anyone before though, and it’s a little difficult to control. “It’s not like I know what I’m doing.”

“Well for starters, he probably left his number somewhere.” Ferre glances down at their tray, lifts up the napkins, scans round everything that could have something written on it. When they’re done, they look back up at Jehan, whose expression is somewhere between fondness and pity. “That was a bit quick,” they say. “You really are a bit gone for him, aren’t you?”

Combeferre sighs.

“I’ve barely stopped thinking about him,” he all but whispers. Jehan softens then, reaches out a hand for Ferre to take.

“Ferre,” they say, running a thumb over his knuckles. “It might just be some big coincidence that we came to the coffee shop where he happens to work.” Ferre looks up at them. “I know you don’t really believe in fate, but it feels a little like that, don’t you think?” he smiles. It does, really. “Let it happen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! comments are appreciated, come scream at me on tumblr @ panlesters


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okayyy this chapter was a lot longer coming than i expected lmaoo but here it is! between writing another fic and working this fic got sort of lost but once i sat down to write this chapter it really came through quickly, so here you go!

Combeferre feels a bit ridiculous, walking back to the coffee shop alone on his next day off. He’s not sneaking around exactly, but he doesn’t want to make a big thing of trying to find Courfeyrac again. He hasn’t mentioned anything to Jehan, although he muttered something to Enjolras before he left about going to get coffee, and did he want anything. He’d been grateful when Enjolras had said no; it means he can spend the journey talking himself up to sitting inside and pretending not to watch Courfeyrac work.

It’s strange to finally have a name to that face. Courfeyrac. As he walks, Ferre wonders whether he shortens it, whether he has any nicknames. What his friends call him, what his family calls him. Does Courfeyrac know _his_ name? He supposes not, unless Jehan had been back in to tell him. The thought makes Ferre’s stomach churn a little nervously. Or maybe Courfeyrac would ask Jehan for the name of their awkward and shy friend.

He rolls his eyes inwardly as he walks down the street. He knows how unlike him this is. He’s not romantic, and he doesn’t know anything about how to make himself romantic. He shoves his hands into his pockets in frustration and frowns at the ground as he walks. He’s almost sure he’s going to chicken out at the last second. He really doesn’t know what he’s doing, and he can’t think of anything worse than making a fool of himself in front of Courfeyrac.

Sooner than he expected, he’s stood outside the front of the coffee shop, staring at the pretty purple exterior. He takes a deep breath and pushes on the door, hearing the bell chime as it opens. A barista looks over at him as he walks in, but it’s not Courfeyrac. He feels his heart sink a little, but he makes his way up to the counter and orders the same iced tea and muffin as the other day. He almost asks if Courfeyrac is in today, but he bites his tongue, knowing he’d sound creepy and that this barista would probably not tell him. The coffee shop is fairly empty today, so Ferre finds a little table and armchair by the window to settle down with his drink. He has a book in his bag that he pulls out and opens to the bookmark.

Ferre’s read a few chapters before he looks up again. Nearly an hour has passed and the café is emptier than before. He glances up at the counter to see the same barista still there, tidying things away and wiping counters. He drops his head back down into his book and for a few pages he’s lost to fiction again. It’s the voice of the barista that pulls him back to reality.

“Courf, can you clear some tables?” Ferre’s eyes shoot up for a second at the name, but he suddenly feels incredibly embarrassed. He hears a melodic voice reply, and he’s heard it just enough times to know who it belongs to. He quickly looks back down at his book, feeling his cheeks heating up and hoping desperately that he’s not caught out.

He feels eyes on him before he’s even registered that there’s another person out here with him. He can hear blood pumping in his ears so loud he thinks Courfeyrac can hear it. He swallows thickly, and reaches out a hand to take a sip of his iced tea, trying to gauge where in the room Courfeyrac is without turning his head. He’s on the other side of the room right now, Ferre thinks. He stares down at his book and listens to the sound of mugs and plates being moved on to trays. Slowly, Courfeyrac makes his way across the room towards Combeferre. He almost feels like he’s being teased a little. There’s no way he’s not been spotted, and the closer Courfeyrac works, the more distracted Combeferre gets.

Ferre has just managed to begin focusing on his book again when he sees Courfeyrac out of the corner of his eye, tidying the table across from him. And he’s suddenly distracted again. He swallows again and frowns down at the page below him.

“Do you want me to take that?”

Combeferre looks up in shock, to see Courfeyrac pointing down at the empty plate.

“Oh, uh.” Combeferre, looks down at the plate, up at Courfeyrac, and back down again when he realises he can’t really cope with seeing Courfeyrac so close. “Yes please,” he manages to squeak out. He chances another look up at Courfeyrac and catches the cheeky grin on his face.

“Interesting book?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Combeferre says, inwardly cringing at his awkwardness.

“Taking you a long time to get through that page.” He can hear the smirk in Courfeyrac’s voice and heat rises back into his cheeks. “You seem a little distracted by something.”

He’s gone then, carrying the tray of crockery back to the counter. Combeferre barely even notices that he’s staring after him. The other person behind the counter says something to him quietly and he turns back to look at Combeferre, who immediately drops his head back down into his book, turning his page without having properly read it. He hears a laugh from the counter and swallows, dreading the idea of them joking about him over there.

“Go on your break, idiot,” he hears. He forces himself to begin reading properly again. It’s short-lived, though, and he finds himself looking up again when he sees someone stood by the empty chair opposite him.

“Can I sit here?” Courfeyrac asks.

“Uh,” Combeferre says, internally kicking himself. “Yeah, of course.” A fresh peach iced tea is placed in front of him, and Courfeyrac holds on to his own steaming cup as he sits down.

“For you,” Courfeyrac says, gesturing to the drink.

“Oh!” Combeferre says. “You didn’t have to-”

“It’s on the house,” Courfeyrac says, with a wink. Combeferre feels his stomach flip.

“Thank you,” Combeferre says quietly. He closes his book, gently pushing his bookmark back into its place and putting it down on the table.

“I’m Courfeyrac,” Courfeyrac says.

“Yeah, I- I know,” Combeferre says, before he cringes, frowning at himself. “Sorry, I just- my friend, Jehan, they told me your name.”

“Ah,” Courfeyrac says. There’s a new smirk playing on his lips. “Well they haven’t told me your name, so if you’d like to do the honours?”

“Oh, God,” Combeferre closes his eyes and shakes his head, huffing a laugh in sheer embarrassment. “Combeferre.” When he looks back up, he’s met with a fond, if slightly smug grin. “God, I’m so sorry,” he says, laughing again and shaking his head, “I’m such a mess.”

“Don’t be sorry, it’s cute,” Courfeyrac says gently. Combeferre looks up then, into those eyes. Courfeyrac’s confidence takes him aback a little, but it makes him feel giddy down to his gut. He’s not used to feeling vulnerable; he’s calm, collected, and above all, he’s confident in everything he does. He’s really not sure how to handle this new situation. He’s never had to navigate being shy or nervous like this, but something in him tells him that it’s okay to be a bit scared, if Courfeyrac can take the lead.

“Sorry, was that-”

“No!” Combeferre says, all too quickly. He cringes again. “I just… I’m a bit rusty, I guess.”

“You don’t have to worry about being too much, you know,” Courfeyrac tells him. His voice is so beautiful, and Combeferre doesn’t ever want him to stop talking. “I like you. I’m not going to stop liking you.”

“You don’t even know me,” Combeferre says. He thinks he sounds hostile and he opens his mouth to apologise, when he catches Courfeyrac’s soft smile.

“I _want_ to know you,” Courfeyrac says. “Come on, tell me something about yourself.”

Combeferre sits back for a second, looks down at his hands, and tries to remember something about himself.

“Well…” he begins, before looking back up at Courfeyrac, who is smiling encouragingly. A pretty smile, warm and inviting. “I’m a trainee doctor.” Courfeyrac nods.

“That would explain your scrubs when you’re on the tube,” he says.

“I guess so,” he says. “What about you?”

“I’m a law student,” Courfeyrac says with a smile. Combeferre raises his eyebrows and Courfeyrac laughs. “What’s the face for?”

“Sorry, you just…” he frowns. “You don’t seem like a law student.”

“What does a law student seem like to you?” Courfeyrac asks, resting his head on his hand with a grin. Combeferre can feel blood rushing to his face again.

“Angry. Loud,” he says. “Ready to take on the world, and all that.”

Courfeyrac laughs.

“How do you know I’m not any of those things?”

Combeferre opens his mouth and closes it again.

“Uh. Well.” Courfeyrac giggles, a pretty, musical sound, and stretches out a hand to quiet Combeferre.

“I’m kidding, I’m really not any of those things,” he says. “I’m just being a pain in the ass.” He gives Combeferre another wink and Ferre finds that he really doesn’t mind being a little at the butt of Courfeyrac’s jokes. “I don’t really enjoy it. I really only care about music, but my parents wanted me to get a _real_ degree.”

“Shit,” Combeferre frowns. “I’m sorry.” Courfeyrac shrugs.

“Don’t be,” he says. “I’ll get through law school, and fuck off into the music industry sunset, parents be damned.”

“Is that why you busk?” Combeferre asks. Courfeyrac lights up with a smile.

“It sure is,” he says. “I wanted to get my name out there and my flatmate suggested it. I have a youtube channel too, that he helps me with. Editing and shit. I got lucky there, living with a media student.”

“My flatmate’s a law student like you,” Combeferre says.

“Oh, so _that’s_ where your law stereotypes come from,” Courfeyrac grins. Ferre smiles sheepishly in an attempt to match Courfeyrac. “Well, we’re not all like your flatmate, I promise.”

They don’t get much more of a chance to chat. Courfeyrac checks his watch after another ten minutes and gives Ferre a sad smile, telling him he has to get back to work.

“What time do you finish?” Combeferre asks, before he loses his nerve. Courfeyrac grins.

“Seven,” he says, quirking an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, I just- I thought, maybe we could do something after.” He swallows, and looks down at the table where their drinks are sat. “If you want,” he added, quietly. He feels a fist nudge his shoulder and looks up to see Courfeyrac’s beautiful, soft expression.

“I want,” he says. And with that, he’s off, back behind the counter, leaving Combeferre flustered yet elated, considering his options of what they could actually do after Courfeyrac’s shift.

Combeferre is thinking about ordering himself another iced tea when one appears in front of him. He looks up to see Courfeyrac stood above him, smiling softly. He smiles back, a blush on his face.

“On the house,” Courfeyrac tells him again as he walks away. Looking around, Ferre sees that there’s no one else in the shop, and he feels a little embarrassed. But Courfeyrac stands, leaning on the counter, head resting on his hand, watching Combeferre. He’s not really sure what to do with this attention; it’s been a long time since he’s been the object of someone’s affections like this, and he really doesn’t know how to deal with it. So he grins back, a blush across his cheeks, and takes a sip. And he doesn’t take his eyes off of Courfeyrac for a second. Not until his colleague walks past Courfeyrac and pokes him in the rib.

“Get back to work, stop being gross in front of me.” Courfeyrac rolls his eyes, and blows a kiss to Combeferre, who turns beet red and ducks his head to hide his grin as best as he can. He feels like a schoolboy with his first crush all over again. He goes back to his book, which he’s nearly finished now, and gives a quick check of his own watch. Six thirty.

He hears his phone ping a few minutes later and glances down to see a text from Enjolras.

**E: You’ve been gone all day. Everything okay?**

Combeferre smiles and picks up his phone.

**Ferre: all good, still at the coffee shop**

**E: This isn’t the one where your man works, is it?**

**Ferre: what makes you think there’s a man?**

**E: Jehan.**

Ferre huffs a laugh. The bastard.

**Ferre: okay… maybe**

**E: Be home by midnight, young man**

Combeferre rolls his eyes and shoves his phone in his pocket, turning back to his book. He manages to get through another chapter before the other barista comes over to tell him that they’ll be closing up soon, and could he get ready to make a move.

“Courf can meet you out the front after,” they tell him. “You can go and make love eyes at each other somewhere else.”

“Uh, thanks,” Combeferre frowns. He puts his book in his backpack and heads out into the street to stand and wait while the coffee shop closes. He pulls out his phone again and opens up a game to pass the time, but it’s only a few minutes before Courfeyrac is out and next to him.

“Hey Courfeyrac,” Combeferre says as he puts his phone away.

“Ew. Courf please,” he says with a laugh. “You ready to go?” he asks. “I think if Eponine has to deal with me any longer she’s gonna stab me.”

“I think I might be included in that,” Combeferre says with a huffed laugh. Courf grins.

“She’s great really,” he says fondly. “She just gets fed up with me talking about this one really cute guy all the time.” Combeferre looks over at him, and ducks his head again quickly when he sees Courfeyrac looking at him. A hand comes up to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck.

“All the time?” it almost comes out as a whisper, but when Combeferre looks up, he’s met with a look he’s not seen before. If Combeferre didn’t know any better, he might describe it as adoring.

“Well, I had to tell someone about you,” he says, grinning and stretching out an elbow for Combeferre. “Shall we?” Ferre loops his hand through Courf’s arm and they walk together like a couple from the 1800s. “Eponine can’t get away from me while we work together, so she’s been the one to get the full force of it.”

“I didn’t think there would be much to say,” Combeferre tells him.

“What, about the hot, mysterious guy who gave me a tip in the middle of a busy tube station, and has the prettiest smile I’ve ever seen?”

Combeferre risks a nudge into Courf’s rib.

“And when you turned up at the coffee shop the other day? Ponine couldn’t get out fast enough.”

Combeferre ducks his head as he laughs.

“Anyways,” Courfeyrac says, giving a tug on Combeferre’s arm. “Where are we going, boss?”

Combeferre looks up sheepishly.

“I thought maybe we could just go back to my flat?” he says, suddenly feeling a little lame. “We have a bunch of movies, maybe we can find something a little fancy for dinner?”

“Sounds perfect,” Courf says, and Ferre brightens again. “Will angry law student flatmate be there?” He feigns being scared, a hand flying up to his chest, and Ferre smiles.

“I can ask him to clear off for the night.”

“My hero.”

Combeferre thinks his inexperience in dating is really showing tonight. They ordered some pizza and he let Courfeyrac choose a couple of movies from their DVD collection, but he feels like this isn’t the right sort of first date for someone you don’t really know. But Courf seems contented, and Ferre thinks he’s the one of them who knows what to do here, so he reassures himself as much as he can with that thought.

When the pizza is eaten and they’re fully relaxed into their movie, Combeferre begins to feel like he wants to take things further. Despite how cheesy he thinks it is, he stretches his arms above his head and reaches one over to settle along the back of the sofa behind Courfeyrac. He supposes it’s okay, really. There’s no question that they’re both into each other. Initiating things is the difficult part.

From there though, it’s not long before Courf has inched all the way across the sofa and tucked himself into Ferre’s side. He lets his arm curl slowly around Courf’s side until he feels fingers twine into his and lets his hand be pulled right round him. He can feel eyes burning into him, and when he looks down, Courfeyrac’s eyes are looking down at his lips.

It’s been a long time since Ferre has kissed anyone, and he thinks he’s probably going to be a bit shit at it. That being said, he would _really_ like to kiss Courf. So instead of initiating it, he just lets his own eyes drop down to watch Courf’s mouth, and lets his tongue dip out of his mouth to swipe over his own lips. Courfeyrac takes the hint, with one last glance of confirmation up at Combeferre’s eyes. He drops his eyes closed as Courf’s mouth meets his, and immediately lets himself get lost. He doesn’t remember moving his hands, but when he feels soft curls between his fingers he tightens his fist and tugs gently. Courf licks into his mouth in return and he feels himself fall a little further.

He’s not sure how long they spend sat on the couch, making out like teenagers. When they properly break away from each other, Combeferre can’t seem to drag his eyes away from Courf’s lips, swollen and wet. Courfeyrac blushes under Ferre’s gaze, and he feels a drag of satisfaction through his stomach, that he finally managed to break through that confidence.

“Ferre,” Courf whispers, dropping his eyes down to their hands, which linked together sometime during their make out session.

“Courf,” Ferre echoes. Courf looks back up at him with an almost shy grin.

“God, I just wanna jump you right now,” he says, with a quiet laugh. “But,” he stops, putting a hand on Ferre’s chest. “I really like you, Ferre.”

“I really like you too,” he whispers.

“I wanna do this properly,” he says, leaning back properly. Ferre hasn’t missed his eyes on Ferre’s lips, and he finds he likes the idea of Courf finding it a little difficult to control himself. “I don’t wanna sleep with you and never talk to you again.”

“God Courf, me neither, is that what you think this is?”

“No,” Courf says, laughing and meeting Ferre’s eyes. “That’s just… my usual deal,” he admits quietly. “And I don’t want that for us. I like you so much, Ferre. And I wanna get to know you and go on dates with you and call you my boyfriend. I don’t wanna fuck you and fuck off.”

Combeferre laughs, but really he feels suddenly overwhelmed by Courf’s confession.

“I’d like to call you my boyfriend,” Ferre says quietly. He grins down at Courf and takes a chance, pressing a kiss to those lips again, pulling away before he gets addicted.

“Yeah well, we barely know each other,” Courf says, giving Ferre’s hand a squeeze. “Take me out to dinner first, yeah?”

Ferre grins and squeezes Courf’s hand back.

They only manage to go so long before their mouths find their way back together and they sit making out until they’re interrupted by the front door opening. They break away immediately to see Enjolras’ head poking through.

“Don’t mind us,” he says as he walks past them quickly, pulling Grantaire in behind him. “Carry on.”

“I did ask for an empty flat tonight,” Ferre says disapprovingly.

“It’s gone eleven, Ferre, you’re normally asleep by now.”

Ferre rolls his eyes, even though he knows Enjolras is right.

“I should probably get going anyways,” Courf says with a sheepish grin.

“Don’t stop on our account,” Grantaire says. Ferre shoots a glare his way and he grins.

“I’ll see you out,” he says to Courf, getting up and letting him get his stuff.

They step out into the hallway and Ferre closes the door behind them.

“I had fun tonight,” he says shyly. Courf grins up at him and reaches down to take his hand, his eyes never leaving Ferre’s.

“Me too,” he whispers. Combeferre’s eyes drop shut as Courf reaches up to press their lips together one last time. He doesn’t want to stop, but they’re not in the privacy of his flat any more, and he knows he has to pull away eventually. He knows there will be more nights, anyway. Nights curled up on his sofa, or maybe on Courf’s sofa. Nights spent at restaurants and cinemas, nights ending with kisses in doorways or, one day, curling up in bed together.

“Good night, Ferre,” Courf says, pressing one last sweet kiss to Ferre’s cheek and squeezing his hand.

“Night, Courf.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! comments are appreciated, let me know what you think! alternatively, come scream at me on tumblr @ panlesters

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! comments are appreciated, let me know what you thought! or come scream at me on tumblr @panlesters


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